Page 9 of Fragile Twisted Vows

But when I do, when I turn the corner and make my way up the very short and quiet road around the building, I feel that same, anxious burning feeling I felt on my way here earlier. And it has me shuffling in my heeled boots and tucking my hair away from my face once more as it threatens to cloud my view. But it’s useless. My attempt to both scurry and clear my line of sight. It’s all useless because as soon as I look up, I find that I’m staring into a pair of dark, expensive looking sunglasses. A very tall, broad-shouldered man is leaning against a blacked-out SUV. I freeze in place and look around, hoping that someone, anyone walks by so that if I scream, they can help me.

But that doesn’t last. I don’t even have a chance to back away because that large, broad-shouldered man with a slicked back ponytail is grabbing me by the arms with a tight grip and shoving me into the vehicle.

“Hello, Lucille,” he says as he tosses me in the back seat and gets in beside me.

“There’s someone that would like to meet with you,” is all he says before he pulls a gun from his belt.

All I remember is my eyes widening in fear and terror lacing its way through my veins before he slams that very gun into the side of my head and knocks me out cold.

four

Damien

Bruno hauls her into the office of my penthouse and throws her down on the dark green, velvet chaise next to the black, floating coffee table.

It is fairly dark here, except for the bright light of downtown Manhattan that shines through the abundant windows. We’re standing twenty stories above the city, and I bought this place for both the view and the fact that the walls are made of windows that can easily be covered if I felt like anyone was watching from twenty stories to begin with.

I bought out the entire top floor and had it renovated into my own living space equipped with five bedrooms, one office, a gym, a study and even a sunroom with access to the pool on the balcony. The one luxury I’ve allowed myself while I gave practically everything else away to the sister of the girl that’s passed out on my chaise right now. Megan can keep the house. The loft. The cars. But I get this safe haven. I get the businesses that I bought once she filed the papers. And now, I get the sister that she never wanted.

“How long has she been out?” I ask Bruno as I lean on the marble, black bar across from my desk.

“About twenty minutes. I got her pretty good, but I’d say she’ll probably be waking up here soon,” he says as he removes his sunglasses and cleans them with the bottom of his black tee shirt.

“Lovely. You can keep watch in the lobby. I’ll call if I need you,” I say, and he nods as he slides the shades back on and taps on his earpiece.

“Stand guard by the elevator in the penthouse and lobby,” he says to my men before he turns on his heel and leaves the room.

I lock the tall, black door and walk back to the bar where I pour myself a stiff glass before making my way back to my desk that’s several feet away from where sleeping beauty lays.

When I approach her on the way, I get a clear view of Lucille Fairchild and I realize that she is no sleeping beauty whatsoever. In fact, right now, she looks more like a cheap hooker. Her tank top is cut low and reveals part of her black, lacy bra that covers her ample breasts. Her shorts nearly kiss the tops of her thighs and her scuffed boots wrap around her delicate, pale ankles. Her light brown, long hair is thrown over her face and her abundant, cheap bracelets dangle as her arm falls limply to her side, fingers skimming the floor.

I smooth her wavy trusses away to reveal her face. I don’t know why, but I am pleased to see that she’s not wearing a cheap, heavy amount of make up to match this horrid look. Her face is nearly bare, showcasing both her youthfulness and abundance of freckles that trail from her cheeks to her button nose. Her lips are full and parted, those nearly exposed breasts rising and falling as small puffs of air leave her delicate lips.

She’s never looked like this before. I remember her as an awkward girl. A meek little thing that would often hide in her room or be found smiling in the library or garden. She always preferred the pretty, mundane things in life. Nothing at all like her sister.

And she’s definitely nothing like her sister now. The girl that I barely knew has now aged into a beautiful young woman. A beautiful young woman that apparently only owns stained dresses and cheap, revealing clothes.

I walk away from her and sit at my desk, staring at her files as I sip my scotch and listen to the ticking clock and dark wind that blows against the windows of my office.

Lucille Rosyln Fairchild

25 years, born in Hartford, CT

Father Michael Fairchild, Senator of New York

Mother Ann Fairchild, CEO of Trust Bank

The file is both plain and simple, much like her. Michael Fairchild had kept his youngest daughter away from the world for the majority of her life mostly because of her inability to morph into a cold ice queen like her sister and mother, but also because she was born out of an affair, something not many people know, including her.

I don’t know why Michael told me this. Maybe it was the copious amounts of Johnny Walker or the endless amounts of women covered in diamonds that would parade around him in nothing but thongs in the basement of his office in the upper west side. Maybe it was because he wanted to brag that he not only fucked his intern, but also got her pregnant and paid her a large amount of hush money to keep her quiet. Shitty for him, her bargain was that he would keep the child and raise her, since she wasn’t even a college graduate yet. Ann never said a word, then again, I’m sure it was something she was used to.

Politicians are known for both scandals and affairs, as are wealthy businessmen like my father. The wives either bow their heads and keep quiet, or they have their own, or they’re sent away and are unable to be found like my own mother. Rich assholes like Lucille’s father and my own father can get away with whatever they want, because money and power allow them to.

And yes, I could be the same way. With the wealth I’ve obtained over the last year, I have earned just as much power as these men, if not more, because of the line of work I am in. Because of the leader I have become.

So, maybe that’s why Michael Fairchild confided in me all those years ago about the child that he created from infidelity. Because he knows I could be just like him. Or that I’m worse.

Which, in truth, I am. I am much, much worse than Michael Fairchild. But I do it for a reason, not for political gain.

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